Fallen Star
by R Reich
Summary: Set at the end of the Siege of Baraddûr Elrond reflects on his losses, including that of his King.


**Fallen Star**

"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea."

- _The Fall of Gil-Galad, The Fellowship of the Ring,_ J. R. R. Tolkien

After the defeat of the Dark Lord Sauron, Isildur quit the field, taking with him the body of his father, Elendil, and his brother, Anárion. Elrond Half-Elven could only watch on in silence as the Man who was now High King in Gondor left with his entourage, those few remaining Men of rank who had managed to survive the War of the Last Alliance and the Siege of Barad-dûr. To Elrond's dismay Isildur had refused to take the Ring and cast it back into the fires of Orodruin from which it had been forged, despite Elrond's desperate pleas for him to destroy it.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. What was done was done, and no regrets would change it. He was the one left to carry the burden of ever futile and fading hope that Isildur might come to his senses and comprehend that the One Ring meant naught but evil and death to all who bore it. But even then, even in his heart, he knew it would never happen. The nature of the One Ring was inherently evil, created to control, to dominate, and in turn the nature of Man was to be easily corrupted.

He turned away from the sight of Isildur's departure; knowing the Man had the One Ring clutched in his greedy grasp like it was yet another mere spoil of war. Elrond looked down on the ruin of the battlefield. The corpses of Orcs, Men and Elves littered the ground like so many broken and abandoned toys. Looking over the devastation he knew that they, the wounded and living, would have to leave and soon, for the pestilential plagues that sprung from widespread death would soon be gathering over the battle ground to kill those few who had survived the war.

The surviving Men gathered their own wounded on litters to bear away to safer ground, even as Elven-kind did the same, the Last Alliance between Elves and Men broken as the two races went their own way, caring for the wounded of only their own kind. Elrond knew as they all knew, that there would be no way all the wounded could be carried from the field where they fell, that there would be those unfortunates left to die and feed the carrion birds that circled lazily on thermals, to feed those that already fed off the dead.

Out there amongst the carnage lay the body of Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, to whom Elrond was Herald. And not just Herald, but advisor and dear friend. He bowed his head, tears slipping from beneath closed eyelids to leave glistening trails of grief through the grime and blood that smeared his face. His hands clenched into impotent fists of rage, as he silently railed against the fates that had chosen to take Ereinion's life that day. Elrond would have given all to take Gil-galad's place that day, for he knew that of all those who took to the battlefield that day only Gil-galad – whom Isildur had respected as he respected his father – would have been able to successfully order Isildur to destroy the One Ring.

Raising his head, Elrond started to wend his way down from the upthrust of rock he stood on. He would find Ereinion. Find him and take him back to his realm and home in Lindon. He vowed it to himself for his memory, and to the King as his friend.

'My Lord?'

Elrond halted, his gaze still affixed distantly upon the location where Sauron had fallen, and Elendil and Gil-galad with him. 'Yes?' he responded wearily, the victory of the day weighing on him heavily.

Victory. The word was like ash in his mouth. Whilst the Dark Lord had been vanquished too many had been lost to allow Elrond to believe the Last Alliance victorious. Two kings of two races slain, tens of thousands already dead, and thousands yet to die from their wounds... and, of course, the continuing existence of the One Ring.

'What shall we do with our wounded, my Lord?' the Elf asked hesitantly.

_Our_ wounded. Yes, the Last Alliance had been torn asunder indeed, Elrond thought bleakly as he turned to face the Elf. 'Gather our wounded together with those strong enough to bear them. Use whatever you can get your hands on to bind their wounds. We will need the healers. Kill any live Orcs you come across. Just get our wounded away from here.'

'But... where shall we take them?'

Elrond sighed. He did not ask for this burden to be lain upon him. He could lead, he _was_ a leader for all that he was not, and never would be a King, but now... now all he wanted to do was bow down to his grief. He turned. 'Gather them together there,' he pointed to a distant rise, where little blood had been spilt as the battle had been joined far from there. 'I shall return soon. Then we shall leave this place.'

Ignoring the Elf, and ignoring everything about him, he made his way down the hillside, venturing further and further into the depths of the battlefield. Corpses piled up on either side of him, Elves and Men and Orcs. There were Dwarves too who had fought on the side of the Last Alliance, and Dwarves who had allied with Sauron. Carrion birds cried out harshly and stirred irritably as he past, black feathered wings rustling in agitation of having their meal disturbed, their voices in harsh counterpoint to the moans and screams of the dying.

He felt as though he was wading through knee-deep blood. Elbereth knew enough of it already stained the ground, further discolouring his already mud-encrusted boots. The metallic stench filled his nostrils and his stomach rebelled. Dropping his unsheathed sword and stumbling to his knees, he was violently ill, finally succumbing to the carnage around him, carnage he himself had contributed to.

He wiped his mouth with the back of one shaking hand, sitting back on his heels. It was the movement that saved his life, as a wounded Orc surged up out of the pile of bodies and lashed out with a sullied blade, the imperfectly crafted steel whistling through the air where his neck had been only seconds before. He fell back, fumbling for his sword in the mud, bringing it up to close with the Orc.

It didn't take long to dispatch it, the creature already weakened and slowed by a deep wound in its side. Elrond wiped his blade clean on the tunic of a dead Man and stumbled on.

All he could see in his minds eye was Ereinion falling beneath Sauron's black blade. Over and over again, he was unable to intervene and save him, unable to take the blow and give his own life in exchange for that of Gil-galad. 'No...' he moaned through gritted teeth as the blade once more pierced Ereinion's armour. He tripped over a severed limb and once more fell to his hands and knees in the muck. Bloodied mud oozed thickly between his fingers and again he gagged. Never before had death made him so ill. And never before had he lost someone so dear to his heart.

Elrond retched again. His eyes teared and his throat burned at the acidic bile. He raised his head, one trembling, filthy hand pushing back his blood-clotted hair. He wasn't far from where Gil-galad had fallen, and that knowledge spurred him to his feet, once more taking up his sword, stumbling towards the bare circle of scorched earth where Sauron had combusted. There the earth was baked solid, streaked with black soot.

He cast his gaze around, desperately searching for the body of the High King of the Noldor amongst the dead. For there was not one soul left alive here where Sauron had met his spectacular end. That Isildur and Elrond himself had survived the destruction of the Dark Lord was a miracle in itself. Finally he spotted the gore-covered body of Gil-galad, looking like a doll dropped by a petulant child, his spear, called Aeglos, broken in two by his out-flung hand.

Elrond recoiled when he saw the black blade of Sauron fallen to the ground near where Gil-galad's body lay. He kicked it away, the sword skittering across the ground before thumping softly against the tangled corpses of an Orc and a Man, shuddering as once more as the sword evoked the memory of Ereinion's death again.

He knelt by the corpse, pushing a dead, headless body of another Elf off Gil-galad's legs, carefully rolling his friend over onto his back. He sighed at the sight of those lifeless eyes, staring blankly up at the sky. Elrond placed his hand over the wound on Gil-galad's chest, his hand neatly covering what was, in essence, only a small wound. Sauron's sword had punched a hole in the armoured plate, right through Ereinion, and out his back with no more trouble than a hot knife has, sliding into butter.

Elrond reached out and smoothed matted hair off Ereinion's face, palming his eyes closed before gently stroking his cheek. Skin, chill under his fingertips, no longer held any life within. Tears streaked Elrond's cheeks as he soundlessly mourned his loss. He bent over the fallen King, gently pressing his lips against Gil-galad's forehead, his fingers tangling in the hair under his hand.

'Oh, Ereinion,' he whispered, then softer, 'beloved...'


End file.
